Lonely Angel
by Evil Clinky
Summary: “No one ever sees the Angel; but he is heard by those who are meant to hear him.”


_A/N: I wrote this story in 2007, and rewrote it several more times, up until 2008. The quote in italics is from Leroux, but you probably already know that. ^_~ Type of deformity? We don't actually get to 'see' Erik here, so you can just imagine whichever version of deformity you want._

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_…Every great musician, every great artist received a visit from the Angel at least once in his life. Sometimes the Angel leans over their cradle…and that is how there are little prodigies who play the fiddle at six better than men at fifty, which, you must admit, is very wonderful…No one ever sees the Angel; but he is heard by those who are meant to hear him. He often comes when they least expect him, when they are sad and disheartened…_

**Lonely Angel**

The child cries again. It is all the poor thing ever does. I am not the only one to hear, but I am the only one to do something about it, the only one truly capable, and the fact that this child has none but a specter for company fills me with such pity and sorrow. I keep my distance so as not to cause alarm, lest my sudden appearance incite unwanted terror. I remain invisible for the most part, removed as I am from the human race. People quake with fear at what they do not understand, and would rather they go about their oblivious lives, entirely and blissfully unaware of the stealthy presence in their midst.

But this child is different, extraordinary, set apart in more ways than one. This early I can tell, despite the anguish in its tone when a child's voice should be meant for laughter and song. I can feel it in my bones as strongly as if that young voice had suddenly taken on a concrete and tangible form, its tentacles a sinuous melody enfolding about me, twisting and bending my skeleton to its will. I am almost tempted to step from the shadows and reveal myself. Perhaps later, I shall. For now, the dulcet sound of my own voice is our only connection, and it is enough. "Hush, little one," I whisper, "for I shall sing you a lullaby. And then you won't be so sad anymore." _Then _I_ won't be so sad anymore._

It is a sad, sad thing indeed to see a child cry. A grown man's grief—however great, however well-acquainted I am with it—cannot ever compare to the loneliness of a child, its desperate plea for love and acceptance heartbreaking in its simplicity. It is a sadness I know only too well—the searing image of weeping in the darkness for the nurturing that will not come, tiny arms reaching up for a parent's reassuring and loving embrace, only to find nothing there but an empty space.

Alone. So very alone.

No one should be so lonely at such a young age. The world is cruel to the solitary.

My melancholy is swiftly supplanted by desolation. Slowly and insidiously it claims me. Like a wild vine it creeps and winds its way up my legs, around my torso, and through my chest, painfully constricting my heart, squeezing and forcing the air out of my lungs till I can no longer breathe. The little one's cries are a siren call in their potency, and I am drawn to the hurt in this child's voice just as much as I am drawn to the beauty of it.

I glance around in disgust at the cold, bare room in which I now find myself. Whoever designed this small nook certainly did not have children in mind. But Fate brought this young one here, for me to take under my wing, to mold such raw ability to nothing short of perfection. What fathomless potential this tiny thing possesses, such staggering talent contained and concealed within the smallest, most unassuming of vessels. Such humbling greatness from the humblest of beginnings, biding its time, waiting ever so patiently to be unleashed upon the undeserving world.

Still the child whimpers, only more quietly this time. There is no fear in those clear eyes—only wonder—roving, searching the darkness for the unseen stranger. I sing of tranquil slumber, windborne kisses and answered prayers. Of fleeting childhood, dreams lost and dreams rekindled. My lullaby is working, little by little.

Oh, how I love this child! There is not an ounce of pride in that tiny body, only innocence, vulnerability, wide-eyed trust and blind faith in a humanity unworthy of it. These traits will all be shattered as the little one grows, to be sure. There is much pain in store, and I wish in vain that I could keep it from ever tainting my young charge. I want nothing more than to teach this child, kiss and cosset it, be both a mother and father to it. But there is only so much I can do.

"Let me tell you a secret," I say softly, and the child quiets down completely. When I speak again, I am hardly able to contain the fiery passion in my voice. "Someday when you are big you shall sing, and the world will weep at the sheer and otherworldly beauty of your voice. You shall share your heavenly gift, and stories of your genius shall spread throughout the land and be passed on from every pair of lips for generations hence. Indeed, your music shall become legend, and it will live on long after you have left this earth."

"But rest easy for now, little one, and sleep." I soften my voice once more, lace it with tenderness and pray the child feels it. "You will never again be alone, for I am here. Know that the Angel of Music loves you and watches over you. Always. Forever."

The child gives a rare smile as its eyes finally close in slumber, and I am filled with an inner warmth and peace with every gentle rise and fall of that little chest. Boldly, I step into the faint moonlight filtering in from the room's only window. I bend over the cradle and kiss the tiny forehead, something his mother can never be bothered to do. "Sleep, little Erik," I tell him, "And one day you shall be an angel, too."


End file.
